Amish Jedi: In a City Far, Far Away

Episode 5.1 ~ Scribble

My eyes flutter open. Sunlight streams through the jalousie windows, lighting up the dust particles that dance like tiny fairies in the air. The apartment is quiet, other than the stirring of morning noises wafting in from the street below. When I sit up, I notice a note on the coffee table,

          Your dad called. Didn't want to wake you.

I'm still wearing my costume but with a blanket covering me. Vaguely my memory of last night returns.

Groan.

Placing my feet on the cold floor, I walk to my room and stare at the bed where a half-naked girl wearing pink furry underwear and bra with her belly painted like Love-a-Lot Bear tussled with Lord Voldemort. Not able to decide which part of that picture is more disturbing, I spring to action. Stripping the bed and sheets, I toss them in a garbage bag. Then, gently, I return my costume to its bag and deposit it in Megs's room. Showering, I allow the red paint to run off my hair and down the drain. I scrub off last night like an old skin. Fresh and new, I pull on jeans, a vintage Star Wars–T, Converse, tie my still-slightly-red hair into a pony, and head out the door carrying the garbage bag.

"You're up." Megs bounces on the balls of her feet when I enter the laundry mat.

I deposit the bag on the counter between us. "I will never see Lord Voldemort the same again—or Love-a-Lot, for that matter."

Megs's smile melts off her face. "Oh...sorry about that."

"Incinerate those."

"Relax, we've got a sanitation treatment." She hands the bag off to one of her workers with instructions, then turns back to me. "So, you missed all the fun last night."

I raise a brow.

Megs's wide grin endures, and she leans toward me. "Sarah got drunk and told everyone she wanted to sleep with Mr. Darcy, but he wouldn't sleep with her even though she was the sexiest person in the room."

I snort. "Thinks a lot of herself, that one."

"Jason got upset and took her home."

"To sleep with her?" This should not upset me. Probably just my Amish-ness kicking in.

"Jason hasn't touched that witch since going all Christian and telling Sarah he's waiting until marriage."

"He—really?"

"Didn't I tell you? I'm sure I did." Megs scratches her chin, then shrugs. "Anyway, the reason there's so much tension between those two is because Jason did this one-eighty out of nowhere. Sarah flipped, but Jason proposed to show her he hadn't done this because of her."

"Why did he do it?"

"He went off the deep end when his parents died, falling for Sarah. And when his grandmother got sick, I guess he just had enough. Went to church one day, and has been going ever since."

"Weird."

"You're telling me. But I guess it's nice in a way, too."

I nod, chewing on Megs's sudden mention of church and it being a gathering Sunday back home. "Are you working late today?"

"Probably."

"See you later then?"

"I'll have your sheets Voldemort-free."

I cringe, but thank her and leave. I'm not so worried about the germs as the creepy feeling of my favorite fandom being messed with. If you're going to dress up like Voldy, act the part or take the costume off. And, definitely, do not tussle with a Care Bear.

Slipping out my phone as I climb the stairs, I realize I won't be able to return my parents' call until the afternoon. They'll be off at someone's house for a day of sermons, singing, and food. I never paid much attention to the schedule. Was it his family's weekend? If so, Maem and Daed will be home early. If not, they took the buggy, which means I won't be able to reach them until almost dinner time.

Back in my room, I open the top drawer of the nightstand and pull out my worn Bible. I covered the black leather exterior in purple adhesive paper when my parents gave it to me. Since I arrived two months ago, I haven't set foot in a church. It's not like there is a robust Amish population in NYC. Even if there is, the likelihood of their holding gatherings is slim to none.

I pull my laptop onto the bed and do what I always do when I have a question, Google it. I start with: NYC Church. A long list of churches on the island generates. None of them is Old Order Amish. There's Evangelical, Presbyterian, Catholic, Baptist, and so on. I click through to a few websites; they all say they welcome guests, but I can't just go to a church not knowing if I can sit next to an open window or get up and leave if a panic attack sets in. As much as some members of our church didn't understand me, they had accommodated my needs. I hate that they had to do that. I didn't want to be treated any different than all the other kids. But after three gatherings in a row of blacking out and keeling over on the person next to me, they put precautions into place. I sat with my mom and sisters in a reserved a spot next to a window. It was understood that I could get up and go outside if needed. As a five-year-old, this meant Maem had to go with me. Sure, sometimes I was bored or homesick for Florida, so I feigned a need for escape, but Maem is smart and caught on before I could make it a habit. Though sometimes I think she was just as bored and longing for the old days as I was, so she would let me get away with it.

How am I going to do this without you? I think at the computer but really my words are directed at two people hundreds of miles away wearing a bonnet and driving a black buggy. Jason's face pops up in the periphery of my thoughts. He obviously would know of a church, but I can't very well go ask him. 

If only I could attend church here. In my room. Next to my fire escape. On a shot that this could be a possibility, I Google: Church at home. A bunch of resources to conduct a gathering in my two-bedroom apartment pop up. Not exactly what I had in mind, so I try another angle: Church Online. I click on one of the results entitled, "Life Church." Seems non-threatening enough. A prayer form pops up when I reach the website. I x out and am greeted by a welcome surprise when I press play. There is a band playing songs my Aunt Martha pipes into Troyer's Bakery where I work back home.

Hungry, I carry service with me to the kitchen and watch as I make a plate of cinnamon rolls and a mug of chocolate. Three songs pass before a pastor comes on. At this point, I'm curled up on the couch licking icing off my fingers. The sermon is very different from what I'm used to. First of all, it is conducted in English rather than old German. I find myself laughing at parts, which I would have received an elbow to the ribs if I'd done so back home. And the service, music and everything, is over in a little over an hour.

Finding myself with more of my Sunday left than I expected, I log onto some of my much-neglected social media accounts. I have Zook's on Facebook, but I set up a Twitter for myself to follow my favorite authors and such. I don't ever actually tweet anything. That's when I realize what day it is—November 1st, the start of NaNoWriMo. Coming out here, I promised my parents I would focus on writing. Which I've been doing for the story, but I've let my blog, PotterWars fall by the weigh side. Perhaps I should NaNoWriMo the blog rather than the book? Or both. Fifty thousand words in a month is a lot, especially if I edit as I go. I click through to the website, hesitate, but then plunge forward and set my goal.

An eery sense of obligation settles on my shoulder, weighing 50,000 words. Unable to bear more than a moment of today's word count of 1,667, I open up my blog, click on "new post," and stare at the blank screen. Nothing particular comes to me, but I figure the first post should be something Potter related since the blog does focus on Harry Potter and Star Wars. Not sure what to write, I pull out my Kindle and start re-reading Sorcerer's Stone. I'm three pages in when an idea hits me. Six-hundred words, a few GIFs, and a featured image set, I schedule the post for Tuesday and mark off 600 words for today's goal on a blank page in my notebook.

Great, Zia, now time to tackle the other 1007.

The cool day taunting me through the window, I grab my notebook and decide a change of scenery is in order. There is a small park a couple blocks away. I head there and find a bench in the sun. I feel a bit like Bella on a rare sunny day in Forks. 

This thought leads to the next—longing for a Jacob to sit beside me and be my personal space heater. But he was never quite that warm, and I can't exactly summon him to my side from hundreds of miles away. Perhaps if I can imprint on someone, this throbbing in my chest at the merest thought of him will go away. Oh, Lord, please let me imprint.

I glance around at the occasional passer-by, but nothing, so I return to my notebook. Only the words don't flow easyily today. They come in one sentence at a time. Sometimes a word. That's it. Times like these make me wonder if I'll ever have another truly satisfying writing day. One where my hand flies across the page, the story unraveling before my eyes. So caught up in it all I don't even feel the blisters forming on my fingers or the cramping of my joints. A day where, when I look up from the page, it is like pulling out of a vacuum tunnel and realizing there's a whole other world going on around me—one where hours and hours have passed without my notice, perhaps even meal times. Those are the days that make being a writer worthwhile.

"Miss Zook?"

I look up from where I've been staring at the lead of my purple pencil pressed to the page, willing it to pour out its magic, to find Jason standing in front of me dressed every bit like Bruce Wayne out for a stroll.

I'm about to say, "What are you doing here?" but catch myself remembering all Megs revealed about his past and realizing last night was no more fun for him than me—though part of my not-fun was totally his fault. "Yes?"